


Les Invalides

by Blackbird Song (Blackbird_Song)



Category: White Collar
Genre: Gen, Gen or Pre-Slash, One bit of explicit violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-13
Updated: 2015-12-13
Packaged: 2018-05-06 11:02:32
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,209
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5414405
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Blackbird_Song/pseuds/Blackbird%20Song
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In the aftermath of a terrible night, Peter contemplates what to do next.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Les Invalides

**Author's Note:**

> Stocking stuffer written for [](http://whitecollarhc.livejournal.com/profile)[whitecollarhc](http://whitecollarhc.livejournal.com/)'s 2015 Advent Calendar. Many thanks to my husband for the beta.
> 
> * * *

Peter presses the cool hand between his own for the hundredth time. The I.V. line has become second nature to him, just as the noise of the hospital receded into the background when he began his vigil. He's done this too many times.

He wishes El were here, but knows it's better that she's not. She'd understand a lot of things he doesn't, but she'd also find out why he was here and how close he, too, had come to death. The sound of her imagined words fills the space in his head that needs it on this awful night. The thought of how much worse things might be if she had been with him crashes through him and he finds his forehead resting on the pale fingers bent limply over his hand.

He goes with it for a moment, knowing that the hospital personnel are too busy to care about what they might think they saw, and that even if they noticed, they really wouldn't care. Not here. Not in Paris.

"You know we're two of the lucky ones, right?"

It's true, Peter reminds himself. Neal's deeply asleep and nowhere close to out of the woods, but he's not comatose. He's also breathing on his own and no longer intubated. The surgeon called it a miracle, a word rarely used in this place, and the carnage from the attack is still inundating the hospital. Picking up his head and glancing out as someone screams in the corridor, he's glad that he's not here in an official capacity. He's heard that scream too many times, though it has a different inflection in a hospital. The scream of someone being ripped in half by loss is recognizable to him in nearly all its forms.

He did it once for Neal, though he didn't let anyone hear it and he made sure no-one was within earshot when he finally broke down and poured out his tears.

And then a year later, Neal wasn't dead.

And all he can think of now is the pulse he can hear on the monitor and feel under his fingers. He pays attention to feeling it instead of hearing it. The monitor's out of sync enough that it drives him crazy and his ears are still ringing from the guns. He traces the powder burns on Neal's hand. "For a guy who hates guns, you have a damn good aim." Stroking those fingers makes it even clearer to Peter how much he's missed Neal, even though he had intended to capture his former CI and bring him back to serve—to clear....

Peter doesn't know what he intended—intends anymore. "You've saved my life more than once," he says. "I just never imagined you'd do it with dueling pistols." He takes the risk and kisses Neal's hand. "Thanks." He rises and starts to turn before he feels a squeeze from the hand he's setting free.

"Traveling..." The voice is weak and husky.

"What?"

"Traveling pistols. French ... rifled barrels. 1750. Gen—genuine." Neal's eyes are closed and he's fading. "Protect ... from high—highwaymen." His hand is starting to slip from Peter's, but the tips of his fingers are trying to cling.

In spite of the ache in his back, the pain from the bullet graze in his thigh and the discomfort of knowing that El is worried sick about him – and he hasn't told her a thing about Neal – Peter sits down again, holding Neal's hand. "I'm right here." _And I'm going to have to choose between you and everything I've ever known._

"You're welcome," Neal murmurs.

It takes Peter a moment to recognize what Neal is replying to and another moment to calm himself after a fresh onslaught of flashbacks to the terrorist turning the gun on him before Neal's bullet grazed past Peter's ear and struck the bastard in the eye, ending him.

He puts it down to shock and trauma, but Peter's never wanted to kiss Neal's face as much as he does right in this moment. It's completely stupid because he's going to have to extradite the guy and make him serve time, and then maybe he'll be able to take a vacation with El, once the world has calmed down, and kiss her at sunset on the top of the Eiffel Tower. The only problem is that right now, he's imagining himself up there with Neal.

He has to move or he'll lose all feeling in his left hand and possibly the ability to walk ever again. More grateful than he has ever been for his long limbs and level of fitness, he gets to his feet and moves the chair so that he can lean against the wall or the top of the bed, thus taking the pressure off his back, all without letting go of Neal's hand. He hasn't told Neal about the son he named after him, but he's pretty sure Mozzie has.

He hopes Mozzie is okay. He'll have to find him after—after what? After Neal lets go of his hand? After Neal paraglides out of the hospital window down to whatever street this hospital is on? After he puts Neal back in jail?

"You're thinking too loudly," Neal says. "Do you need a bed?"

"Yeah." Peter had meant to say no. "But they don't have a spare. And I don't think we should share."

"We're both thin..."

"And you're injured."

"So are you." Neal starts to slide over towards the I.V. and turns white, gasping.

"Neal—"

"Just help me." It's faint as hell, but something in it tells Peter to shut up and help, so he does.

"It never ceases to amaze me how heavy you are," Peter quips as he helps Neal to settle himself in place. He looks up at the monitor. "At least that thing's not acting up."

"I can't lie on my side," Neal says.

It's so faint that Peter checks the pulse oximeter reading on the monitor and then makes sure that the I.V. is still connected properly – not that he'd know what to do if it weren't. "You sure you—"

"Peter..." It's the first time Neal's said his name since they set eyes on each other at the bistro on the Boulevard Voltaire, just before the gunfire began and the terrorist grabbed him.

"If I get on that bed with you, I'm going to hug you." Peter's teeth are clenched against his exhaustion.

"Please don't." The pain in Neal's voice is palpable.

"Okay. I won't." Before he can think better of it, Peter climbs as carefully as he can onto the bed, stretching out on his side and facing Neal. It's the most awkward and uncomfortable thing in the world, but there's really no other viable choice because nobody's allowed out on the streets right now and his back really needs a mattress. Eventually, he finds the one place he can drape his arm that doesn't make Neal gasp in pain.

Neal grasps Peter's hand in a loose, comforting grip. "I'm glad you're here."

"Me, too." Peter had meant to say, 'Wish I could say the same.' On impulse, he kisses the back of Neal's head very gently.

Neal's breathing eases and Peter feels him fall asleep.


End file.
